A Privet Matter: Why a Farmer Hacked Down China’s ‘Lonely’ Tree

SIXTH TONE ×A Privet Matter: Why a Farmer Hacked Down China’s ‘Lonely’ TreeWhen a social media trend ruined her crops, one villager grabbed an axe and decided to do something about it.By The Beijing NewsJun 19, 2026#social media#rural China#agricultureIt began with a viral video filmed using a drone. The camera sweeps over vast, golden wheatfields, the surrounding peaks shifting like ocean waves, before settling on a single glossy privet, the only tree for acres around.

Within days of the video being released on Chinese social media in March, a once-quiet corner of China’s northwestern Shaanxi province suddenly became a hot destination, with tourists, vloggers, and influencers flocking to capture this tall, “lonely” tree at the foot of the Qinling Mountains.Then, one day, Liang Yali grabbed an axe and hacked it to bits.Forty-eight hours earlier, the 67-year-old farmer from Baimiao Village, part of the provincial capital Xi’an, discovered that tourists taking snapshots had trampled a large path through her wheatfield, which runs next to the privet.

Seeing the damage, Liang says she was so angry she “nearly coughed up blood,” adding that as she looked at the tree, she thought to herself, “I really have no choice.”Rising around dawn on May 26, Liang hiked more than 150 meters along a steep, winding road to reach the fields before setting up a ladder and then chopping at the privet’s branches, some of which were as thick as her forearm. After a while, only one branch refused to break.

She eventually yanked it down with a rope, reducing the tree to a bare trunk.When she noticed someone was filming her, she urged them to post the video online: “Tell everyone the tree’s been cut down and to stop coming and trampling my fields.”Exhausted, Liang set down her tools and looked across the plateau, unaware that her actions would be seen by millions — and that things were about to get a lot worse.

Treading a fine line“Only by standing beneath the tree can you feel that sense of freedom and healing,” reads a social media post from May. Short videos also show people leaning against the glossy privet, stroking its trunk, and reaching up to touch its leaves.For two months, tourists descended on the village to chase that “perfect shot” — a solitary tree cast against distant mountains, golden wheatfields, and a blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds.

“You have to come many times and be patient,” says a photographer who visited the spot five times.Unfortunately for Liang, the ideal position to take the picture for those with only a smartphone was in the middle of her field.On May 22, a steady stream of people were spotted walking through Liang’s crops — women danced in colorful shawls, while men crouched among the stalks shouting directions.

“They weren’t worried at all about the awns pricking them,” says one villager, who felt angry at the sight but wasn’t comfortable confronting strangers.The crowds peaked two days later, when a fair opened in the nearby town. Villagers recall a line of vehicles stretching almost 500 meters parked along the wheatfields that afternoon.

At 7:20 p.m., Liang received a call alerting her that her wheat had been trampled.

It wasn’t the first time, and previously only a few dozen stalks had been damaged. That had upset her, but she didn’t want to spoil people’s fun.This time, however, the zig-zagging path stretched nearly 25 meters and was almost 1 meter wide.

“It was wide enough that if you walked straight in, your body wouldn’t even brush against the wheat,” Liang says. Stalks lay snapped and twisted in every direction, their roots still anchored in the soil. “I nearly dropped dead from rage,” she adds.

After standing on the field’s edge for nearly an hour, Liang returned home to care for her adult grandson, who has severe cerebral palsy and requires round-the-clock supervision. She’s been looking after him for 18 years.That night, Liang was unable to sleep.

All she could think about was the trampled wheatstalks. Mechanized farming may have reduced labor, but buying seeds and hiring workers to help plow and till costs money, with expenses reaching nearly 2,400 yuan ($355) per acre. With just a few careless steps, more than half a year of hard work had been wasted.

The more she ruminated, the angrier she became. “The grain was practically already in our bowls,” she says.The next morning, Liang grabbed a plastic cable from home and returned to her crops, picking up a 500-centimeter-long tree branch from the roadside on the way.

Three cars were already parked beside her land when she got there, but fortunately no one was on it. She stuck the branch into the ground and ran the cable from the top to the glossy privet’s trunk, attempting to block the makeshift path.She then went home to prepare breakfast for her grandson, but returned in the afternoon only to find a middle-aged woman in a red dress standing at the farthest end of the path.

Liang’s cable barrier was nowhere to be seen.When she confronted the